


more happiness than you can hold

by aetherae



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A bunch of OC children, AND I DON'T CARE BABY, F/M, Fluff, Hair Braiding, Post-Canon, extremely goopy schmoopy fluff, jon and sansa have definitely been going at it like rabbits, self-indulgence of the highest order, this is peak sappiness here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22196200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aetherae/pseuds/aetherae
Summary: In the quiet hours of the morning, Jon finds his favorite way to spend time.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 59
Kudos: 209





	more happiness than you can hold

**Author's Note:**

> look none of us actually care about the details of how jon and sansa get together in a post-canon got world, right? right. moving on—
> 
> this fic is 100% inspired by chapter 7 of [orangeflavor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeflavor/pseuds/orangeflavor)’s [Winter Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22015750/chapters/52776067) which is a DELIGHT of a drabble collection, and i highly recommend everyone go read it! while it's not necessary to read it to understand this fic, i recommend you go read it anyways. the whole collection really. honestly, why waste time here when you can read that instead??
> 
> ANYWAYS, where this fic comes in is that after i commented “NOW I NEED MORE OF JON DOING SANSA'S HAIR IMMEDIATELY,” my brain actually went “you’re absolutely right, we’re making this shit right now,” SO. that’s where we are. crazy how inspiration works sometimes, for once i’m feeding myself with the content i want to see immediately instead of idly wishing someone else would do it for me HAHAHA. i'll take it though, i'm coming into the year hot with fresh fic and a feeling of productivity and inspiration that strikes so rarely. FEELS GOOD MAN!
> 
> all that said though, i hope you enjoy this!

It starts off simply enough, the way all his favorite things do—with Sansa.

Jon loves her hair, whether pinned and braided intricately above her neck or falling about her face like liquid silk. The years have worn away any spoiled vanity that Sansa once indulged in as a child, but her hair remains a point of pride for her, and he couldn’t be happier for it. Kissed by fire, softer than satin, there are few things that feel better beneath his fingertips than her hair. On the rare mornings where he wakes before her, he counts himself lucky to have those quiet moments where there’s nothing else to do than have Sansa in his arms, listen to the soft sound of her even breathing, and run his fingers through her hair.

“If you love it so much,” she teases one morning, both of them still abed and reluctant to start their day in full, “you ought to learn how to braid it for me. That way you’d have even more time with it.”

He flushes, already picturing all too easily how he could foul it up. “I fear I’d only make a mess of it.”

She raises her brow, grinning ever wider. “You really think I’d teach you so poorly? I thought you trusted me better than that. Come on,” she says, pulling his hand as she sits up, even though seeing the blankets and furs slide down her naked form only makes him want to drag her back to bed, “we’ve time, and I’ve much to teach you.”

Truthfully, it’s not as hard as he expected. Once upon a time, he braided Arya’s hair for her, and Sansa’s braids aren’t much more complicated than that. Long gone are her days of intricately woven hairstyles as complicated as her embroidery. Now, busy as they are with the duties of running Winterfell and the entire North, she prefers styles and braids that simply keep her hair from getting in the way. Depending on what she wants, sometimes he must plait under, sometimes over, but it becomes more familiar than not soon enough. Once, she tries to teach him one of her braided buns, and that becomes the mess he expected from the beginning. Even then, she only smiles and laughs, warm enough to rival even the summer sun. She spends the entire day with his braided bun, never once unpinning it.

They don’t always have the time for his attempts though. Sansa’s hands remain more familiar and skilled with the movements no matter how much he practices. He thinks it would be faster still to leave the task to one of her handmaidens in all honesty, yet more than once he catches her dismissing them once she’s dressed, hair still undone as she waits expectantly for him by her vanity.

“Wouldn’t it give us more time to spare if we left this to one of your lady’s maids? They already help you dress, after all,” he asks her one day, carefully brushing out any tangles with his fingers first.

“It would, but…” She meets his gaze in the mirror, cheeks flushed and blooming smile small, almost sheepish. “I like it better when you do it. You care enough to want to do my hair, something I doubt many husbands would. I love that.”

Her confession is far too heady, too decadent for his heart, already fit to burst just knowing she allows him this intimacy. He’d never thought brushing someone’s hair as particularly romantic or even significant, but being able to take care of her like this, doing this one little thing to make her day that much easier—there are few other ways he’d rather spend his mornings.

“You make it sound as if I’m doing you some great favor when you’re the one indulging me.” Pausing his work in her hair, Jon bends down to kiss her. He means only for it to be short and sweet, but Sansa brings both hands to his face, dragging him down into a kiss so slow and soft he thinks she means to kiss him forever. His heart pounds in his ears when he parts, just as breathless as she. “I love you. Of course I’d care enough to want to do this for you.”

“I know.” She kisses him once more, smiling against his lips. Giggling as they pull back, she says, “Besides, you’re much gentler than any of my ladies when you put my hair up.” Sansa turns back around in her seat, and Jon resumes his work in her hair. He can feel her gaze remain on him though, and when he looks back up into the mirror, her eyes meet his once more, smile now a challenge and the heat of her gaze unmistakable. “When you’re taking it down, however…”

It’s a tease. They’ve to break their fast and petitions to hear and a dozen other things waiting for them outside this room. Really, they don’t have the time to linger here.

Even so, his hands drop from her hair, and he laughs when she squeals as he hoists her into his arms, already making his way back to their bed. After all, if they have the time for him to do her hair, there’s time enough for other intimacies as well.

And so it goes, Sansa wearing his clumsy braids and knots as proudly as she did her Southron styles as a child. No matter how much time passes, it touches him every time she leaves their chambers with his work in her hair. Part of him is almost embarrassed, but the smile Sansa gives him through the mirror—whether delighted or sly, fond or even proud—leaves him too happy to waste time feeling self-conscious.

No, what’s embarrassing is their eldest child asking for the same. Lyanna.

Looking back, he thinks he should’ve expected it. After all, from the time their daughter could walk, she spent her mornings with them in their solar as often as she could. Lyanna grew up watching Jon comb and brush and braid Sansa’s hair. It might’ve been stranger still for her not to be curious.

Still, it catches him off guard when at three-years-old, she looks up from Sansa’s lap to him and says, “Do me next.”

“Next?” he asks, a pin in his mouth as he winds Sansa’s thick braid into a bun. “Next for what?”

“My hair, Papa. Do me, too!”

Lyanna tugs on her hair as she looks at her mother’s visage in the mirror. With her long, auburn hair and fair skin, their daughter could be the spitting image of Sansa save for her eyes. Throughout Sansa’s pregnancy, Jon would have been happy so long as the babe was born hale and hearty, but he melted at the idea of a daughter with red hair and Tully blue eyes, just like her mother. Instead, when Lyanna first opened her eyes, she looked up at him with the same gray gaze he saw every day in the mirror. There’d been nothing to do but weep in his joy.

Now, she looks upon him beseechingly, eyes wide and mouth turned in the most adorable little pout. From Sansa’s expression in the mirror at his own, he can already foresee nothing but trouble in his future when it comes to Lyanna and what she wants.

He pins Sansa’s hair in place and bends down to press a kiss atop Lyanna’s head. “I’d love to, sweetling. Are you sure you don’t want Mama to do your hair for you though? She’s much better at it than I am.”

“Whoever you like, Lyanna,” Sansa says, already smoothing down their daughter’s hair with her hands. “We can both do your hair how you want.”

Their little girl shakes her head though. “Maybe next time… But Mama always looks happiest when Papa does her hair, so I want Papa to do mine, too. And you have to do it just like Mama’s!”

His daughter’s words alone make his chest feel tight, too full with love for the both of them for just one man to contain. But then Sansa smiles down at Lyanna, laughing as she playfully whispers, “You’re right, darling. I’m happiest when Papa does my hair, too.”

Lyanna giggles along with her, Sansa’s smile widening all the more, and Jon thinks his heart could explode from the sight of them together. By the time they’re all finished, Sansa and Lyanna walk through the halls of Winterfell with matching braided buns coiled low on their heads. Throughout the day, he’s not sure he’s ever seen either of them smile so widely, so frequently, and always especially when they see him.

Much to his surprise, it’s the same with their son as well. Robb.

Born a year after Lyanna, Jon thinks he learned to walk only so he could follow after his big sister. Where Lyanna goes, so does Robb, and just like his sister, he spends as many mornings as he can in his parents’ solar. Unlike her though, Robb pays little mind to the hairstyling that goes on. No, he tends to come in with a wooden horse or little toy figures, playing with them in Sansa’s lap or on the floor as he waits for them all to finish. Sometimes, Lyanna will bring in a few of her own toys as well, always insisting Papa does Mama’s hair first and passing the time till her turn by playing with her brother, weaving stories and songs for their miniature adventures.

Those days, Jon wonders what he could’ve possibly done to deserve such peace, such happiness, and prays he does enough to keep it.

It’s during one such morning when he’s just about done with Lyanna’s hair that he feels a tug on his leg. He looks down to find Robb’s curious gaze flitting between him and his sister.

“Can you do mine, too?”

Again, perhaps he should’ve expected this before long. Still, it feels as though his heart might crack in two, and even then, he thinks he’ll never grow used to the feeling. Holding the end of Lyanna’s braid in one hand, he crouches down, gently stroking Robb’s cheek with the other.

“Of course, Robb. Give me just a moment to finish your sister’s, and then you’ll be next.”

Lyanna squeals in delight, already asking if she can try doing her brother’s hair as well. Sansa laughs, soft but bright, and instead suggests that Lyanna try practicing with her hair first. When Jon finishes with Lyanna, she hops off the seat in a rush, excitedly patting it for her brother. Immediately, Robb holds up his arms to be lifted, and Jon scoops him up easily before placing him in the chair.

“How will you do his hair, Papa?” Lyanna asks by her mother’s side. Once again, she asked for the same hairstyle as her mother, and as she stands before Sansa in her seat, he can only smile at how similar they look. “His hair isn’t as long as mine or Mama’s.”

Sansa smiles, gently turning Lyanna around and brushing an errant hair out of her face. “Well, why don’t we ask him? Robb, how would you like Papa to do your hair today?”

Robb wrinkles his nose, only sounding mildly affronted when he says, “Not like Mama and Lyanna.”

He laughs, harder and louder than he means to, and Sansa joins in while Lyanna huffs, defending their hairstyle. The length of his hair aside, Jon hadn’t expected Robb to be interested in the twin braids crowning his mother’s and sister’s heads, tied together in the back to resemble a rose. He remembers what it was like to be his son’s age, and he can only imagine what his namesake’s reaction would have been like if Lady Catelyn tried to style his hair in such a manner.

“Not like Mama and Lyanna, then,” Jon says, carefully working through Robb’s dark, wavy hair with his fingers. It reminds him so much of his uncle—of Ned Stark, his father in his heart no matter the truth—but his son’s eyes are all Sansa. All Robb. “I can just comb it, if that’s what you want.”

His son shakes his head, tilting back to look up at him from his seat. Young as Robb is, Jon can’t even see him through the vanity mirror. “I want it like how you always do yours, Papa.”

Jon’s yet to even touch his hair. In truth, he usually leaves that up to Sansa—a luxury she indulges him in, no matter how she insists it’s more a treat for her—but he knows exactly what Robb speaks of. From the corner of his eye, he sees Sansa grin at them both in the mirror.

“I think you’ll look very handsome like that. Very handsome, indeed.”

Jon laughs, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He grabs a hair tie from the vanity, gathering Robb’s hair from the top half of his head. “Aye, I think so, too.”

For the rest of the day, Robb walks around Winterfell with a small, stubby bun at the crown of his head, the rest of his hair running free. Just the same as Jon. Sansa jokes that she would have commissioned a portrait of them done today if she’d known what Robb would ask for, and for as much as he laughs, in his heart, he can’t help but wish the same.

The years pass, their family grows, and Jon finds himself styling hair for all of them at one point or another. Sansa still asks for him to do her hair as often as they can afford to, although those opportunities lessen as their children ask for the same. Even as they grow older, Lyanna and Robb both want him to do their hair every morning. Their twin girls Catrin and Alys as well, Catrin wanting simple braids for her dark brown hair in a way that reminds him so much of Arya while Alys asks for ribbons and pins and everything else in her wild red curls. Edric’s copper locks are too short to be truly styled at the moment, so instead he asks for it to be brushed into a shining curtain whenever he can. Theon is far too young to ask for his mahogany curls to be styled in any way, having only just seen his first name day, but Jon suspects he will in due time all the same.

With years spent doing his family’s hair now, it isn’t until Sansa points it out herself that Jon realizes. No matter how they look or what their temperament is, whether they love songs of romance or reenacting battles of old, all their children take after their mother in one particular way: how they want their hair done. Specifically, by him.

“I fear you’ve spoiled the children,” Sansa says one morning while they’re still abed, her hand tracing idle patterns on his lower back.

He groans, nuzzling further into Sansa’s shoulder while tightening his grip around her. Much as he loves all their children, the quiet moments he can steal alone with his wife in the morning are precious few these days. Briefly, he wonders if he can feign sleep to enjoy the quiet for just a little longer.

His wife laughs, her voice melodious even when thick from sleep. “Jon. I know you’re awake.”

There’s no hiding his smile. He opens his eyes, blinking sleepily, and Sansa greets him with a kiss.

“How do you mean?” he asks when he can bear to part from her sweet lips. In truth, he can think of plenty of ways of how he might have spoiled the children. They’ve all their different ways of skirting around the rules, but one way or another, he knows they have him wrapped around their fingers.

“Their hair.” Jon laughs, and Sansa swats at his shoulder, even as she bites back her grin. “I’m serious! When I tried to braid Lyanna’s hair the other day, she took one look at my work and said, ‘Father does it differently.’”

“Differently, she says? Clumsily, or messily, sounds more like it.”

Again, he can’t resist chuckling. For all his practice over the years now, Sansa remains the expert when it comes to hair in their family. Just the other day, she challenged him to recreate one of her more complicated styles for fun, and by the end of his attempt, he worried they’d have to chop her hair. The children have asked Arya once or twice during her visits back; they stopped when she left their heads as birds’ nests every time. Even Bran tried his hand at their behest during his rare visits. For all his stoicism as the Three-Eyed Raven, given the flush in his cheeks after his attempts, Jon suspects he was far from satisfied. He thinks with time, Lyanna will be as skilled with hair as her mother, but for now, all the talent remains with Sansa.

“Still, that’s what she said! It was the same with Catrin and Alys. ‘Papa’s braids are nicer,’ they told me. Even Robb complained that you tie his hair back better, and Edric says I brush his hair too hard. If I let Theon ask you as well, I’ll never be able to do any of our children’s hair.” She sighs, looking down as she gently strokes her growing stomach. “And you, too, little one. I’ll have to do your hair first before your father can steal you away.”

He smiles, letting his hands join Sansa’s on her belly. No matter how many times he sees it, he thinks the same thing every time Sansa’s stomach begins to swell with his child—that she’s never looked lovelier.

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t realize I was hogging all our children so.” He bends down, pressing a kiss to her belly and the babe growing within. “Listen to your mother, now. You have to let her comb and braid your hair whenever she wishes.”

Sansa laughs, cupping his face in her hand to draw him back up to her. “Oh, it’s nothing as serious as that. Besides, I love seeing you do that for the children.” Her thumb smoothes across his cheek, and he turns ever so slightly to kiss her palm, just to see her smile widen. It does, brighter than even the sun now. “I simply wish to share on occasion.”

“And you’ll have just that. Shall I tell them this morning that you’re to do all their hair? It seems like the least I can do to make it up to you.” She can do all their hair for the next moon, if that’s what she wants. He certainly won’t complain.

“No, you needn’t do that…” she trails off, but from the gleam in her eye, the shift in her smile, he knows she has something else in mind. “But I do have an idea as to how you can make it up to me.”

They rise from bed, and their morning in the solar begins as noisily and busily as it always does, Lyanna carrying Theon in her arms while Robb follows behind, one hand held by Alys and Catrin each as Edric barrels ahead of them all. They all speak at once, the ebb and flow of their voices rising together like a melody—what lessons they have that day, if they can skip those lessons, can Robb take Catrin out riding with him, when will Edric get to practice sparring like Lyanna, if Alys can look after Little Theon instead. Jon can hardly hear himself think with all of them together, but as he lifts his youngest from Lyanna’s arms and kisses his mop of curls, he knows he’d have it no other way.

“Children,” Sansa interrupts them not long after, having hugged and kissed each of them now. Alys turns around from where she clings to Jon’s leg, the last to receive her morning hug from him. “I thought we might do something different today to start our morning.”

“What are we doing, Mother?” Robb asks, his hands resting on Edric’s shoulders to keep him from playing about the room.

Sansa places her hands on Jon’s back, gently guiding him to sit before the vanity. He takes his seat, blinking at Sansa’s visage through the mirror, eyes wide and gaze bewildered. She simply smiles back at him before turning towards their children.

“I thought we could all do your father’s hair together, to thank him for all he does for us.”

The children’s excitement could knock the door down for how palpable it is, all of them bursting into a flurry of activity. Lyanna gathers combs and brushes for everyone while Robb drags over a bench and chair for his younger siblings to stand upon. Catrin, Alys, and Edric argue over who gets to stand where next to their Papa until Sansa settles it herself. Even cradled in his arms, Theon reaches up to tug on Jon’s curls as if wishing to join in on his siblings’ fun.

“You don’t have to,” Jon says softly, looking over all their dear faces.

“Hush, Jon.” Sansa presses her lips against his temple, and he can feel her grinning already. “Let us do this for you.”

Surrounded by his family, their love and their laughter and their hands tugging his hair this way and that, he has no choice but to. To think, he once thought that being loved so well, so fully was nothing more than an impossible dream.

Now, not even his dreams could be this sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> my notes for this fic included a longass list of different names for all their kids and the helpful line of "jon loving hours are real i guess." consider that the tl;dr for this whole thing LOL.


End file.
